Happiness. Is it possible? Desirable? Lasting?

When I married 47 years ago, I was happy. I felt strongly I’d made the right decision, had the right man for me, and was happy to move 270 miles north to his hometown. It seemed logical since I was in limbo, living and working in France and having no desire to return to my London job once the French job came to an end. It WAS the right decision, as it turned out. But I did sacrifice some things: my London friends (although we have kept in touch) and my family of origin. Parents and two siblings .

The first year was hard in ways I hadn’t expected. I had no experience of the North West and even of some of the terms they used in the first job I got baffled me:

- A mitherer was apparently someone who fussed about things.

- A winger was a moaner.

And so on…

I disliked my job, and was quick to find another one when they offered to make this temporary job permanent. No thank you!

The second job was lots better. I stayed there until I had my first child.

But what I hadn’t factored in, was that, good though my husband was, he couldn’t replace my whole friendship group and family, and I was often lonely outside work hours, especially as I had longer holidays than he did.

That’s where hobbies came in. I looked into a pottery course to fill one week. It was great fun, and the other students were friendly. I also decided I’d learn classical guitar, and, never having had music lessons before, applied to the College of Music. I found a brilliant teacher who took me on, and loved the learning and being able to play some lovely guitar music. Practising took up as much time as I was prepared to give it, so I diligently picked up my guitar whenever I had free time. I’m not saying it wasn’t hard, as an adult learner, but the enjoyment derived fully made up for that.

Then came our first child. I was happy. No more pottery or guitar lessons, although CDs (cassettes then) of guitar music were the next best thing. I threw myself into motherhood, and did a very part-time but interesting job. I was happy.

Then came our second child, a boy, who seemed to display worrying signs from the get go. Too much sleeping, a sort of sloth who could go for 13 hours without waking. Hang on, this didn’t seem normal. And it wasn’t. That son is now 40, and lives in a care home which can meet his considerable needs much better than we eventually could. Happy was not a word I would use for those years, my husband uses the term “blighted years”. And I’m afraid to say they were. If you’ve ever experienced the world of disability you’ll know how much of a fight everything is. Services, provision, finance. It’s super-draining.

Happy in later life? I’d say so, yes. Trials and tribulations at times, sadness - inevitable for all I think… But I must say, we have come out of the dark years, and found out just who our friends are.

What is your experience of happiness?

Sally

A Moodscope member